


Like a Lusty Flower

by xomaddertonxo



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Cannes, M/M, Sleepy Taron, drunk boys, not entirely sure where i’m going with this yet, sappy shite in which i absolutely indulge in detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xomaddertonxo/pseuds/xomaddertonxo
Summary: Dickie and T unwind over a few beers after Cannes.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii so as promised here it is! i loved writing this first chapter - sorry there isn’t loads going on, i wanted to set the scene a little bit. i’m soo excited to write more & see where these two take me. as always i owe thanks to the incredible writers in this tag & their inspiration (also, ‘amoreena’, of course)  
> enjoy!!  
> xoxo

2019\. May. France. Cannes. Rocketman. Screening. Applause. Tears.  
The night’s events seemed somewhat of a blur, a recent yet distant affair, as Taron guzzled the remains of his second Peroni; he was sprawled on the clean white linen of the French suite he’d be inhabiting until being whisked away to another city, another screening, another crowd of eager eyes. Richard, 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆𝒅𝒍𝒚 two doors to the left, 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 two inches to the right, drank at a considerably slower rate. Not his room, but he must’ve spent more time co-existing within these four walls, already. Really, it probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that they’d left the screening intent on saving their festivities for the hotel - one shared room, content in each other’s company - given the closeness of their friendship. It had been one hell of a night, and as much as getting a bit merry to celebrate the first public showing of ‘Rocketman’ was on the cards, the prospect of a well-earned, well-overdue slumber was also on the cards. Beers on the bed had seemed the perfect middle ground, both motives considered.

Clothing, too, reflected their mutual comfort; Richard sporting a casual fit of far-too-short-for-potential-pap-consumption sweat shorts and a black t-shirt, Taron clad simply from hip to ankle in checkered sleep bottoms. Discarded their suits respectively, met back in the middle like magnets. Familiar, easy, friendly. Glad to be alone after an evening of overwhelm. It had been a while since they’d got giddily, languidly drunk together, just the two of them. 

11pm. Inhibitions sinking with rational memory. Taron on his sixth bottle, Richard creeping up three swigs behind him. 

‘We did it.’ Taron announced, a feeble declaration, soft, perhaps more to himself than the eyes wondering his face, the tight-lipped leer to his right as he fixated on the bottle in his hand. Blinked away the fixation, snapped up to meet those eyes, blue and dilated and glossed over from the drink.  
Less lip and more teeth, then; ‘A well deserved response, Superstar.’

‘God I was terrified.’ Chuckled, delirious. 

‘I’m proud of ye.’

Ever-supportive, ever-grounding Richard. Taron thinks he could keep a helium balloon tethered to its surface, with the right words. 

‘Knackering watching yourself be someone else for two hours.’ Another chuckle, less purpose. Sweaty palms raked over hot face. 

‘You get yer beauty sleep; I’ll see ye tomorrow.’ Richard’s words buried the rustle of sheets as Taron settled beneath the duvet. He’d seen T this tired only once before, on set, all droopy eyes and long yawns after a particularly strenuous shooting schedule. He’d always insisted on carrying on, of course he had, but now he could comfortably double his usual resting hours - in a fancy French hotel’s king size, of all places - Richard wasn’t in any position to stop him. 

‘You can stay.’ Almost inaudible, muffled into the pillow, ‘I’ll spiral if I’m on my own.. Can never sleep after these things, god.’ Obvious exhaustion, a slight drunken slur in his voice.

After tonight’s reception, his current incapacity to argue - try to change Richard’s mind should he rather leave - Taron deserved to have his way. Not that Richard was about to disagree, not at all. So he crawled into bed beside him, t-shirt slung god knows where. Close, considering the vast expanse of the cosy indulgence. But not too close. Elbow on mattress, hand on face. 

‘Night, T.’ He cooed, no more than a whisper, bodies now in parallel. 

Richard wasn’t expecting a coherent response, an unintelligible grumble at most, Taron’s even breaths but otherwise silent, motionless figure suggesting said beauty sleep hadn’t been the hard task he’d implied it might be.  
He 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 wasn’t expecting that same silent shadow to lift from the Egyptian Cotton, limp and fatigued, inch closer to his own face, plant a hard kiss on his lips. The face of exhaustion, eyes still sewn shut like he couldn’t bare to 𝒔𝒆𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕, coupled with a sure yet soft force that told Richard he was in fact very, very awake. Fingers clenching hard muscle like a vice. Shoulder sturdy under Taron’s strong grip, elbow still dug into the pillow. Own hands useless to return the intimate touch, unknowing in such a fleeting, sudden display. A slight purse of his own lips, but even that was nothing to Taron’s efforts; over as quick as they had begun. He eased the touch grounding Richard’s shoulder, unlocking the vice he’d held him in, now merely the faint brush of skin under the dim light of the French night. Own vice, pulling on his eyelids, maintained, though that same hand lifted from its resting spot, knuckles brushing stumbled jaw. Sleepy smile plastering beer-blushed cheeks. A second, more chaste press of lips. The flutter of lashes to at last reveal a sea of hazely-green; indistinguishable had it not been for their close proximity. 

‘Night, Dickie.’ Spoken into the abyss of the room as if it were the easiest thing in the world, as if this was normal. Richard 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 the dip of the mattress more than he saw Taron slump back under the duvet.

It was in fact he who struggled to drift off that night, head spinning as he settled. Couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, this time. Richard didn’t think he’d ever felt so sober.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i actually can’t believe how long it’s taken me to get this chapter up - i had the majority of it written just days after posting the first, before the dreaded writer’s block engulfed me & all motivation was lost. after managing to find a feasible conclusion i decided i just needed to get this out there before i lose my damn mind!! at this point i’m sick of reading my own words😭😂 so again, sorry there isn’t a lot going on here. i’m a sucker for details but i promise there’ll be a bit more action soon!  
> again thank you to @heavensfallingaroundus for the lovely feedback on the first chapter :))  
> all the love & enjoy  
> xoxo

Richard woke to a trio of unfamiliarities; a new view, the weight of a body at his side, warm breath in his ear. Didn’t take long to identify all three, couldn’t remember Taron scooting quite so close last night (𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅); sort of wished that wasn’t the only detail having been clouded by his broken recollection. 

Sleep had done nothing to tear Richard’s thoughts from the abrupt affections of the night before; this considerably new territory sprung on him like a pouncing cat. No trepidation, no hesitation, all sense of rationality crumbled to nothingness on Taron’s part. A move so smooth, so calculated, carelessly muddled in Richard’s mind. Alcohol-encouraged, but with an underlying incentive, surely. A plethora of questions, without a single answer. 

𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒉

He was thinking too much, he knew he was.. Taron had been full of adrenaline, no doubt; 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉-𝒐𝒏-𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, a little delirious, and a lot drunk. Perfectly acceptable grounds to elicit such exploits, all things considered. Had Richard been a few more beers down, not 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚-𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈-𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓, he would’ve thought nothing of it. Sounded unconvincing to even his own ears, amongst his own screaming thoughts, that. 

Peeling himself from the sweat-slick sheets, from the body and the breath, he blinked at the view. Half-open curtains exposed streams of sun against the hard floor, the soft bed, dancing to the rise and fall of Taron’s steady snores. Black t-shirt, found crumpled somewhere near the door, hit Richard’s chest as he pulled it over his head and reached the window. Thankful for the lighter he’d left on T’s balcony, the one ciggie earlier forgotten in the pocket of his sweat shorts, he carefully wrenched the handle and crept into the morning sun.

Too few drags of the cigarette, too many glances back at the man-shaped-mound, sinking with its every outward puff, and Richard left for his own room.

—

A cold shower and a hot coffee later, and Richard felt glad to announce (if only to his own conscience) that he was starting to feel human again. 

𝑨 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆, no less. 

Sunk onto a Taron-less bed. Brandished his phone, decided now seemed like a good time to kickstart their usual text etiquette. 

𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧

𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧

𝘿𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠

𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙜𝙜𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙄 𝙖𝙢

𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 

𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙪𝙥

Ample fingers tapped away at a too-bright screen, blue bubbles of coherence shot from one phone, into the shared air, before being carried to another, ‘delivered’.

Pocketed said phone. Yawned.

The low lull of the TV settled Richard, not really watching but enjoying the illusion that he wasn’t alone. Too drained to bother with subtitles. A string of fluent French in the otherwise quiet room.

— 

For the second time that morning, Richard woke. For the second time, his memory failed him. Couldn’t remember falling asleep, this time, but thankful he had; he felt significantly less groggy now. Phone, found beside him, read 10:36. Below, Taron’s response, sent just minutes before;

𝙃𝙖 𝙄’𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 

𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 3 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 

𝙉𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥

𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙮 𝙭

Not phrased like a question, because he knew the answer; 

𝙎𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣 5 𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙚 𝙯

Taron, towelling off his hair with one hand, phone clutched in the other as the notification chimed, found even the erroneous ‘z’ to be an inevitable addition. It wasn’t uncommon for Richard to make any few mistakes when he was typing quickly; the eagerness to return to each other’s company had been mutual (against absolutely no one’s better judgement, of course).

— 

The soft rap of knuckles (one time, two times, three times) echoed through a too-thin door, bounced off the walls like the beat of a stereo; quickly swung open to reveal to Richard a similarly-more-human-looking T. He was dressed from head to toe for the first time since they’d left the screening, and sporting a wicked, unreadable grin.

𝑫𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓. 

Empty bottles on the bedside, the floor - even some still sealed, a promise to return to them later - supplied the only evidence that last night had happened at all. Taron’s welcome was warm, friendly, not unlike any other exchange they’d shared.

Richard had to wonder if he even 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 what he’d done, in all his delirium.

The pair discarded the litter, stomachs growling, persistent, in concert. Decided to pop downstairs for a late breakfast, Taron’s idea.

Yoghurt and fruit and toast smothered both sides of the round table; more food than they’d typically allow themselves to indulge in of a morning, but an amount that still didn’t quite feel enough. 

Juice, tea, more coffee.

Plenty of time to kill before the 1pm press conference. 

‘Suppose it’s only up from here.’ Taron spoke around a mouthful of toast.

Richard knew he had been dreading last night, just a bit. Unsure of the reception they’d receive; aware of France’s reputation for tough crowds and tougher critics. Of course they managed to evoke an entirely opposite response as the house lights came up, a sea of spectators rising with them, but he ultimately couldn’t blame Taron for being a tad worried after putting so much of his heart into the film. He admired his mate’s unwavering zeal; agreeing to shave his head for the part had been a commitment, in itself. A hard task had the responsibility been consigned to anyone else; anyone who wasn't T, who’d once stayed up all night racking his brain for means as to how they’d recreate the famous Elton gap (just a line painted over his two front teeth, in the end. 𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒖𝒔).

A warm smile tugged at his lips. ‘London’ll love ye.’

That much, Richard knew. 

He took a moment to consider the man in front of him, really look at him, and realised this was the first time he’d done so all morning. Insistent to avoid any appreciably-prolonged eye contact since last night’s episode, apparently; observing him now felt like letting go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Taron’s returning gaze was only fleeting, quickly casting his eyes back to the last dregs of breakfast adorning his plate. His hands fiddled, his brow furrowed. Richard half-wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if his friend’s thoughts had any correlation to his own. 

Now-relaxed shoulders and the slightest hint of a smirk soon told him that whatever they were, Taron’s inner voice must’ve been considerably unruffled in transmitting said thoughts. A stark contrast to the discombobulation he’d awoke to, body and breath at his side.

Broad stature, receding hairline (courtesy of the aforementioned shave), face still weary but lacking the languor he’d seen last night. Kind eyes and that same damn smirk.

Richard left half his toast as they got up from the table, a sudden stale taste obscuring his former hunger. 

They parted ways, freshened up.

—

1:02pm. Richard beside Taron, Taron beside Dex, Dex beside Bryce. Introduced to the French crowd and met with heavy applause. A more relaxed affair than the night before; Taron had paired a plain white tee with an almost-flamboyant over-shirt, Richard opting for all black (typical) - a quasi-casual combo of cool and comfy.

‘One of the best nights of my life’; he could hear the sincerity behind Taron’s words, didn’t have to look at him to know they were genuine. Knew from the way he’d shamelessly sobbed at their standing ovation, the way he’d wrapped him in a crushing embrace after, the way he’d let the buzz and the booze rush to his head, the way he’d... kissed him, overtired, in the dead of night.

It was almost 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 for Taron to slink an arm over the back of Richard’s chair as he spoke, let it rest there, watch him adamantly. Too easy for Richard’s emulating ogle to be one of attentiveness, depth. Anyone watching would think Taron must’ve hung the fucking moon, entirely responsible for the sole source of light amongst an otherwise dark sky. 

And to Richard, perhaps he had.


End file.
